


For the Best

by roadsoftrial



Series: It always takes a little time [2]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Post-Dawn, alcohol consumption
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-29
Updated: 2018-08-29
Packaged: 2019-07-04 00:03:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15829653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roadsoftrial/pseuds/roadsoftrial
Summary: ‘I, um… ask me what’s on the table?’‘…What’s on the table?’ he asks, voice low and a touch hoarser than usual.‘Booze. A shit-ton of it. Ask me what it’s for?’‘What is it for?’‘Tonight we’re getting wasted. And we’re talking about Noct.’In which a conversation long overdue is had.





	For the Best

‘That bad, huh?’ Cindy asks from the driver’s seat, her head peeking out the open window as Prompto makes final adjustments to the engine they just spent the past few days fixing up.

‘Yeah,’ he sighs as he slams the hood shut before walking up to her. ‘Try it?’

Cindy turns the key in the ignition, and the engine gives a few ominous revs before roaring back to life.

‘There ya go!’ she beams and ruffles Prompto’s hair, prompting a quiet laugh out of him, but worry quickly rears its head back and takes over. It never takes long. ‘Talk to me, sunshine,’ she says as she jumps out of the pickup truck and stands in front of him.

‘It’s… I mean, it’s always the same thing. I want him to talk and… he doesn’t want to,’ he shrugs, going for lighthearted but not quite succeeding.

‘There’s… there’s somethin’ you could try, but, well… it could backfire,’ Cindy lets out, hooking her elbow into his and dragging him to the sink in the corner of the shop.

 _I’ll try anything,_ he doesn’t say. ‘Try me?’ he says instead.

Because it’s been close to two years, two years of tiptoeing through that minefield, too sore, too scared that a misstep might blow up what little they've been able to salvage.

It’s been almost two years, and Prompto wouldn’t say he’s moved on, wouldn’t say he’ll ever fully move on, but… he’s reached a point where he can think about Noctis without wanting to fling himself out the nearest window. He’s able to look back on the good times they shared without becoming overcome by guilt, and regrets, and that raw, unbearable pain that wouldn’t leave him alone for most of the first year of their lives spent without him.

It… hasn’t been so easy, as far as Ignis is concerned. It’s a bridge he’s not willing to cross, fearing, perhaps, that it’ll crumble under his feet, or that he’ll only find an even more desolate landscape on the other side. Prompto can’t quite tell which it is, but he can tell it’s not healthy, and he can tell it’s dragging him down, sinking him slowly.   

Leaving Insomnia behind had been a good start. It had been one of the most challenging things Prompto ever had to do, trying to convince Ignis that his life belonged to himself, that he was killing himself out there, for a Crown he no longer owed allegiance to, for a King that would never rule, for a kingdom that would get back on its feet with or without his help. But with Gladio leaving to mend his own gaping wounds in peace, Ignis’ stubborn resolve had cracked at long last, and he’d let Prompto take the wheel.

They’d travelled around for a while, with no goal in sight, simply moving forward, always, without looking back. It had helped, in some ways. Prompto had noticed how colours had found Ignis’ cheeks in a matter of weeks, how the bags under his eyes had slowly begun to fade. After thrashing and kicking in deep waters for so long, trying to keep from drowning, they’d come up for air at long last. And when they had run out of road to travel, they had ended up in Hammerhead, cashing in an offer Cindy had made him years ago, of a paycheck and a roof over his head if he ever needed one.

They were doing better. They were ok.

But that one final hurdle, Prompto has no idea how to get past.

Once. That’s how many times Noctis’ name has been pronounced since the funeral, since Ignis had tried to say a few words, before completely shutting down. There hadn’t been any tears, hadn’t been any sort of meltdown. But there had been silences, long and loaded and debilitating, and a rage churning slowly, deep inside of him.

It’s been almost two years since his name has been spoken out loud, and Prompto will do anything to get Ignis to say it.

‘I tried this with Paw-Paw when he wouldn’t talk to me about my parents,’ Cindy says in a soft voice as they scrub their greasy hands by the sink. ‘I took _everything_ out of the liquor cabinet, and we got drunk off our asses and talked until there was nothing left to say.’

‘Sounds like it could get ugly, though,’ Prompto responds with a nervous laugh.

‘Oh it did. But maybe… maybe that’s what Iggy needs?’

Maybe that’s what Ignis needs.

***

The soft smile Ignis gives Prompto when he gets home, the brush of lithe fingers against his cheek, the warm press of lips against his are almost enough to make him change his mind, almost enough to convince him he’s capable of spending the rest of his life living with a ghost that takes up the entire room, that they can both see and feel and breathe, but can never mention.

The thought that this ghost probably wants nothing more than to be set free keeps him from flaking. It’s what he would want.

Prompto goes through their familiar dance of ‘how was your day?’ and ‘what would you like to eat?’ with practised ease, but when he responds with a tentative ‘mother and child rice bowl?’ and notices the faint clench of Ignis’ fist against his thigh, the way he stops breathing for a split second, it becomes obvious he needs to go through with his plan.

Ignis has been pecking at the wound for long enough, and Prompto knows it’s time to rip off the band-aid, in one swift motion, to let it breathe and let it heal once and for all.

‘I… I haven’t made that dish in a long time,’ Ignis says in a voice he tries to keep steady.

 _Not since Noct’s last night with us,_ Prompto doesn’t say, _not since your fit of rage the last time I mentioned it,_ he doesn’t add.

‘Igs… Come here?’ Prompto asks from the table, and Ignis complies, maybe of his own volition, maybe because he’s too numb to fight it, Prompto would rather not know.

He finds Prompto, lodges himself between his parted thighs, lets warm and familiar hands surround his waist, slips his own arms around Prompto’s shoulders after a beat, his gaze wandering, avoiding Prompto’s (because he doesn’t need to see for his gaze to fleet, Prompto learned that very quickly).

‘I, um… ask me what’s on the table?’

‘…What’s on the table?’ he asks, voice low and a touch hoarser than usual.

‘Booze. A shit-ton of it. Ask me what it’s for?’

‘What is it for?’

‘Tonight we’re getting wasted. And we’re talking about Noct.’

‘Prompto…’

‘We’re doing this, Igs. And we’re going to do that until we’ve either run out of things to say, or we’re too smashed to keep going. Whichever comes first.’

Prompto doesn’t mean to sound so strict, so cruel, but he also knows how stubborn Ignis is, how tenacious he can be when he decides to bask in his misery. He’s already let it fester for far too long, and if it takes smashing his carefully crafted illusion to the ground to set him free, then so be it.

Ignis doesn’t move for long seconds, doesn’t say a word, barely breathes, until a faint ‘ _Fine,’_ escapes his lips. Prompto slips his hands all the way up to his cheeks, then, and pulls him down and kisses him, slowly, softly, like a balm, like a promise.

Ignis sits in the chair next to him, leans onto his elbows in a worried silence Prompto is set on easing off.

‘So. What’s your poison?’

‘Scotch,’ Ignis hisses without quite realising, then softens up, ‘if we have any.’

‘Sure do,’ Prompto says as he gets to work. ‘Might taste like shit though.’

‘And why is that?’

‘Because I’m mixing the bottom of… six different bottles.’

‘ _Gods,’_ Ignis laughs as he takes a tentative drink from the plastic cup Prompto hands him. ‘This is _dreadful,’_ he adds with a grimace, but takes a second, longer sip anyway.

Prompto chuckles as he fixes his own drink, a healthy mix of vodka, rum and gin leftovers, and orange juice to try and mask the taste. His body will hate him in the morning, but it’s not enough to deter him from his goal.

They drink in silence for a while, Prompto’s thumb rubbing small circles on the back of Ignis’ hand as he holds it on top of the kitchen table. He then chugs what’s left of his horrid concoction, pours himself a second drink, takes a deep breath, and dives in.

‘Hi, my name is Prompto, and Noctis Lucis Caelum was my best friend.’

Ignis is already loosened up by the alcohol, but it’s not enough to keep him from tensing up at the mention of the name, at the fact that Noctis is being talked about so openly, almost casually, after months of treating the topic as some sort of secret to be kept at all costs. Prompto squeezes his hand a touch harder, and Ignis exhales at last, a faint smile on his lips, but can’t bring himself to speak just yet.

And so Prompto continues.

‘He was my best friend and… and I just want to tell the whole world about it, y’know? He was… he was stubborn, and cared too much about appearances, and he was so fucking easy to rile up,’ he chuckles before taking a deep breath, his cheeks warm, tears already starting to prickle at the corner of his eyes, ‘but I fucking loved him.’

He’s ready to do this, has been ready for a while now, itching to blurt it all out, but he soon realises how much of a challenge it’s proving to be, despite it all.

But he carries on. He talks and talks, and drinks and lets out shivering breaths, and talks some more, bringing up mundane memories as they come to the surface, disjointed and tangled up into a warm, painful, cathartic mess, tearing up and choking on quiet ripples of laughter as he reminisces about those countless hours spent at the arcade by Noctis’ apartment, with unending banter and chirping, and the peace offering burger from whoever kicked the other’s ass that night, about all-nighters and late-night snack runs, about those excruciatingly long walks through the wilderness in search of _that one fishing spot,_ about the way his face would light up at the mere mention of it, about nights spent around the bonfire with Ignis and Gladio, stargazing, pondering on anything and everything until sleep inevitably caught up to him and he had to be shaken awake or carried to the tent if Gladio felt particularly benevolent that night.

When Prompto mentions how Noct always humoured his ridiculous requests, Ignis chimes in.

‘He… he could never say no to you,’ he finally whispers.

Prompto stops for a moment, observing Ignis in all of his quiet beauty, with the hints of red on his cheeks and the quivering shadow of a smile on his lips, and he becomes overwhelmed by the same burst of pride and love he felt when Ignis finally beat him in hand-on-hand combat after months of relearning, the same he felt before he kissed him for the first time, the same he felt when Ignis had grabbed his hand and agreed to leave Insomnia behind, agreed to make himself the priority. It’s an innocuous observation, a small step in the grand scheme of things, but it’s the biggest leap Ignis has taken in months, and it means everything to Prompto that he trusts him enough to take it, with nothing but his hand as a safety net.

He takes Ignis’ hand into both of his then, brings it to his lips so he can press a warm kiss into his open palm, like they’ve both done so many times during tense nights, after rough days, before uneasy mornings over the years. Ignis cups Prompto’s cheek, basking in its warmth and dampness, rubbing a shaky thumb over his lips and nose, comfortable and familiar and soft, so, so soft.

‘I… I miss him,’ Ignis continues at last, facing down, struggling to find the right words, the right breath to carry on.

‘What do you miss the most?’ Prompto asks, his voice a quiet encouragement, a gentle nudge.

‘…His laughter,’ he smiles as his eyes start to water. ‘He… he used to laugh so much as a child…’

And Ignis goes off, then, recalling their countless childhood memories, recalling the part of their shared lives that hurts the least to think about. He talks of their frequent treks to the roof of the Citadel, of roughhousing at the Amicitia mansion on sunny afternoons (‘ _Well, he and Gladio did. I didn’t want my clothes to get dirty. He, ah, he always teased me for that,’_ he says with a fond smile). He talks of laughter-laden nursery rhymes and four hands piano pieces, of disastrous attempts at baking sweets and tea parties in Noctis’ chambers, of hours spent trying to make sense of calculus homework and of bouncing off ideas for papers Ignis always refused to write for him, no matter how much he begged. He talks of their teenage years (and he asks for a refill before he gets started), of the frustrations, of the misunderstandings and long silences, of his laughter, and how seldom he heard it anymore, how he worried, at times, that it might be gone for good. He talks of the bouts of jealousy, of the fact that both Prompto and Gladio were able to get to him when Ignis couldn’t, of how helpless and useless he felt, during those times he thought Noctis should’ve needed him most (‘ _It wasn’t your fault, Igs. He had stuff to figure out. You both did,’_ Prompto slips in, because it’s to painful to leave alone. _)_ He talks of the mending years, too, of the relief of finding each other after so long, of how he never lost faith Noctis would come around, how proud he’s always been, of the child he used to be and of the man he became.

He stops, then, before his voice becomes too choked up to let out a sound, before he can tap into the core of what’s holding him back. Prompto decides to do it for him, because that’s what they’re here for, and shifts to conversation towards the trip, letting go of their usual restraints, a free fall into the darker corners, the ones where their regrets and anger, and all the different ways they’ve failed Noctis, themselves and each other, lie, some known, some new, but the tightness of their hands makes the travel far less daunting than the idea of doing it alone.

‘Remember the face he made when you made us stinky tofu?’ Prompto laughs between two sniffles after they’ve been sitting in silence for a long time, in an attempt to bring back some lightness into the corner they’ve backed themselves into. He expects laughter, but is met with a silence, denser, more loaded than it’s ever been. It dawns on him, right then and there, what has _really_ been holding Ignis back all this time, the real reason he’s been silently beating himself up for the past two years. Prompto would berate himself for bringing it up so indelicately, but this is for the best. It’s got to be for the best.

 ‘I…’ Ignis takes a deep breath, combs back his hair with a trembling hand, ‘I can’t remember what he looks like.’

The words come out at last, barely audible, choked up and heavy and wet, and it’s only a matter of seconds before tears come pouring out of Ignis’ eyes, thick, heavy beads rolling down his cheeks in a broken sob, the kind Prompto has only heard him let out once before.

‘I’ve tried… but it’s… I…’

Prompto bounces off his chair before he can finish, and closes the gap between them, holding Ignis’ head against his chest, allowing him to collapse onto him, fingers grasping at Prompto’s shirt, melting into a wave of hurt wails that carries Prompto along in force as he tries to let out whispered _‘It’s ok. It’s ok.’_

It’s painful and ugly and raw, but it’s for the best.

It’s for the best.

_—_

Ignis wakes up to the heat of the midday sun prickling his nose, and a searing pain in his skull. He doesn’t quite remember going to sleep, the end of the night a tangled blur in his memory. He remembers tears, lots of them. He remembers kisses and hands against him, unwilling to let go, remembers dread and despair, but also how he never once doubted how safe he was.

He remembers… he remembers talking about Noctis, and for the first time in a long time, the mere thought of him doesn’t make him want to crawl out of his skin. The wound is still there, the scar tender and swollen, but it doesn’t seem as lethal as it once did.

He supposes there was some merit to Prompto’s methods, as drastic as it had seemed at first.

He slowly pulls himself to a sitting positing, smiles when his hand finds a bottle of water and three painkillers on the nightstand. He quickly swallows them, takes a few minutes to allow the world to stop spinning, then slips out of the bed and towards the kitchen where he can hear Prompto bustling about.

‘Hey Igs,’ Prompto says with a smile in his voice, and finds him to press a kiss on his cheek before sitting back at the table. ‘How… how are you feeling.’

‘I’ve… been better, but I’ve been worse,’ he smiles, and the answer seems to satisfy Prompto. ‘How about you?’

‘I’m… insanely hungover.’

‘Is it worse than new year’s day five years ago?’ he asks with an evil grin and a ruffle of Prompto’s hair as he passes by the table and zeroes in on the coffee machine.

‘Oh buddy… nothing can ever top that,’ Prompto chuckles, and they fall in a comfortable silence as Ignis pours himself a cup of coffee and sits at Prompto’s side.

‘But, um… really though,’ he picks up, ‘are you ok? I know last night was, well, a little extreme, and—’

‘I’m ok, Love. It… I needed that push and… and I’m glad you were the one to give it to me.’

‘Ok. Ok, that’s good. I, um… I don’t want to push too much but, um, I made you something while you were sleeping.’

‘Oh?’ Ignis asks as Prompto lodges what feels like a flash drive into his hand.

‘It’s… you don’t have to check it out now but, um, I dug up a bunch of old videos where… where you can hear Noct’s voice.’

Oh.

‘It’s not… I figured that way you, um… you’d get a little something to remember him, too.’

Ignis keeps quiet, his hand finding Prompto’s over the table, the same as they did the night before, but without the tension and the fear of what will be unleashed. It’s steady and strong and loving and thankful, and filled with words Ignis can’t quite reach, with sentiment he doesn’t quite know how to express.

‘Thank you.’

It will hurt, when he decides to go through it. It will hurt, but Prompto will be there with him, like he always has been, and that knowledge alone makes the task ahead infinitely less daunting.

It will hurt, but it’s for the best.

It’s for the best.

It’s always been for the best.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading!! Comments and kudos are, as always, wildly appreciated ♥♥♥
> 
> (Come cry with me on [tumblr](http://roadsoftrial.tumblr.com/) and [ffxv tumblr](https://thelegendarynoctgar.tumblr.com/)!!)


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